Unspoken Truths
by katieforpresident
Summary: "I want that: that secret smile, that connection, that warm, firm hand in my own… I want to have someone who understands me; who will accept me for who I am." Rachel is perfect - and she knows it. Sometimes she needs someone else to say it, though. Women just want to hear their own opinions in a deeper voice. How will Rachel find her man? [AU] [Oneshot]


**Title: **Unspoken Truths

**Rating**: T

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I think it's every girl's dream to have a boyfriend. Seriously, everyone. Not just the cheerleaders; not just the sluts… _everyone._ Maybe not all in the same sense, but that want is still there. For the emo chick, it's someone to treat her like a normal person; for the nerd, it's someone to hold her hand; for the airhead, it's someone to see past her ditziness and into her true kindness…

And for me? I'm not sure. Actually, I am; all _too_ sure. I'm sitting here on this park bench waiting for my dads, and as I watch guys walk by, I'm just filled with this overwhelming want. Like, I want that: that secret smile, that connection, that warm, firm hand in my own… I want to have someone who understands me; who I know will accept me for who I am- no, who will _want_ me for who I am… Because I am a little overwhelming. I know that. I accept that my dazzling brilliance is sometimes too much for people to handle.

So many guys walking by, all of them, in my eyes, desirable. The way that one ducks his head when he laughs, the way that one walks with long and sure strides, the way that one keep rubbing his nose as though he's embarrassed – it's all so endearing, so perfect.

I want someone to hold me, you know? To put his arm around me and kiss me on the temple and laugh with me and smile a special smile… I want someone who has his quirks, his bashfulness, his hitching laugh, his oddly shaped toes; someone who has all these and looks perfect in my eyes anyway. I want someone to give me a gift that didn't cost him fifty dollars but that I love with all my heart anyway.

Other kids think that I have everything I want, because after all, I am Rachel Berry. But I can't be perfect all the time. Well, yes, I can. I'm allowed in indulge, though. I need to hear someone _else_ tell me how special I am. I need someone to want me; to look at me with stars in his eyes.

I want this all. You know what I want? I want a boyfriend.

.

I'm at the mall, shopping for new socks. Cute boys stream past me on both sides like a breeze: a short burst of cool relief, and then gone again. I'm wearing my good dress, the one with the neckline that's almost scandalous. The pattern – little moose and deer – is, I believe, welcoming yet sexy. I'm not only shopping for socks: I'm shopping for boys.

For me, every couple walking past is like a tug on my heartstrings. I'm wanting them. Those boys, and the love they offer. I'm wanting them _so_ badly.

I keep trying. A smile at this boy; a nod at that one. I won't "come on" to them; I still have some self respect. I'm just offering them a taste of what they could have. I'm gently throwing the bait.

But no one's biting.

.

Tonight, it seems, fate is against me. The pump is filling my car at a painstakingly slow pace, which I normally wouldn't mind, except that Hurricane Katrina seems to have had a daughter who's living right here at Kwik Trip. Of course, my thin windbreaker is about as helpful as a paper bag over my adorable cherry red skirt. The socks are helping, though. The numbers are ticking on the screen, up up up up up…. I'm frozen by the wind and the cold and the steady _whoosh_ of the gas filling my car.

Determined to keep my body from freezing solid, I begin to walk in circles. I need something to distract me: an animal, a wrapper in the wind, _something_. The pump ticks on. The slow, broken rumble of a truck catches my attention, and I see headlights swing into the far end of the parking lot. It seems that another person as crazy as I am decide to venture out tonight.

The pump clicks and with a sigh of relief, I shut my gas lid and head inside the store, leaving the poor soul to fend for him or herself.

The warmth of the building is amazing, and for a minute, I just stand and revel in its thawing power. Its only when the door chimes behind me do I jerk out of my stupor. The person behind me – presumably my fellow brave storm traveler – bumps into me from behind, sending careening into a case of Twinkies and HoHos. I yelp, he yelps, and the cakes go crashing to the floor, me on top.

I can hear him – it's a male, I know – apologizing, and suddenly I realize that I'd shut my eyes in anticipation for the fall and forgot to open them. "I'm alright," I reassure him with a laugh, and open my eyes – and freeze. My breath catches in my throat, my eyes flicker, and my heart picks up. Because I know, I _know_… it's him.

.

I think about him every day after that. Think about his gentle auburn hair, his soft brown eyes, his smooth skin, his smiling face, the crinkles that appeared when he smiled…. Think about the way he held out his hand, an offering of apologies, or maybe something more…. Think about how I took his hand, and how it felt a little bit callused but smooth and warm and firm at the same time…. I think about how he put one hand out for support as I stumbled my way into a standing position, how his hand was much too far down my back to be considered proper… I think about how I didn't care….

I don't think about his other hand. About the gold ring on his finger; about that gold band of betrayal and promises. I don't think about the girl I saw while watching him walk back to his car through the window, and how the girl was snuggled in his passenger seat like she'd been there a million times before. Don't think about the sweatshirt she was wearing; the _male_ sweatshirt, that she wore so comfortably…

Instead, I think about the bashful smile he gave me when he turned back around before climbing into his truck. And I think about the little piece of paper, so small that it could be slipped into the palm of a hand and not be seen, with a phone number written on it in scratchy print…I don't think about the "get Swedish Fish for Quinn!" written on the front. I think about the phone number on the back, written for _me. _I think about the unwritten invitation.

.

And so my story of love began.

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